


This incessant snow

by ealcynn



Series: Rainfall on Geonosis [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Death, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Major Character Injury, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Post-Episode: s02e05 Landing at Point Rain, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-08-10 03:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20128465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ealcynn/pseuds/ealcynn
Summary: “It might not be glamorous,” I had reproached my men, “but if the Geonosians realise we’ve left wounded troopers out here unprotected, the men you choose to guard them might be all that stand between your wounded brothers and a squadron of droids.”Well, perhaps I did bring this on myself. The universe does love a prophecy, after all.Sequel to 'Suddenly this defeat, this rain'.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the poem Napoleon by Walter de la Mare.

Everything has gone rather hazy.

I try to watch the transports speeding away, dark shadows against the burning sands but before I am aware of it they are already gone, passing beyond my sight. 

Something dark flutters before my vision and I blink; my eyes are gritty and dry as if I have been staring for some time. The dark shape before me resolves into a black glove. The glove is on a hand, the hand on an arm and the arm is attached to the shoulder of Doghouse, a medic in the 212th. He is currently yelling rather rudely into my face.

“General Kenobi! Sir!”

I try to turn my head away from the obnoxiously loud sound, only to feel fingers grasping my face, holding it firm. 

“Sir, please respond!”

I bat his hand away, irritably. 

“There's no need to shout, Sergeant,” I tell him. 

“No, of course not,” he mutters, and glances up behind me to where another trooper is crouched. I can feel a faint pressure as if the trooper is holding onto my shoulders, supporting my back. 

“General, we need to get you onto the stretcher,” Doghouse says. “I just want you to lie still. Try not to move.”

Stretcher? I glanced down and see the handles of an old-fashioned manual stretcher resting on the red dirt at his feet. With so many injured we must have used up every hover-stretcher available. Even more reason why I am not going to submit to these demands; I refuse to be carried to safety by my own men.

I shake my head. “I don't need it,” I say, my voice still sounding strange and distant in my ears. “Just help me up. I can walk, I can…”

“General Kenobi,” Doghouse interrupts. “Commander Cody left me under quite strict orders. You are not to walk anywhere until we've got med evac inbound. In the meantime all casualties are to be under cover. Sorry sir, but that's how it is.”

Oh really. That's how it is, is it? Cody is an excellent officer and Doghouse a competent medic, but I rather think I know my own limits better than they do. I am a Jedi. I'll quickly put an end to this nonsense…

But before I can begin to formulate a suitably cutting response, Doghouse seems to have taken my silence for assent and, crouching by my feet, he has started to count down. 

“Ready? On three...” 

Now the trooper behind me, Sparker I think, has his hands jammed under my arms, Doghouse grips onto the armour plates at each of my knees and before I can prepare myself or make any objection, the troopers have lifted me bodily into the air and down on my back onto the hard plastoid of the stretcher. They are gentle, of course, in a way that belies the purpose of their creation, but the sudden pain of the movement still rips a horrible groan from my throat before I can hold it in. An intense cold sweeps through me, spiralling out from my core to my extremities like a wildfire formed of ice.

One of the troopers speaks, then the other, but I can no more answer them than I can fly. Lost in agony I am nonetheless aware that the floor beneath me starts to move and rock as I am hoisted into the air. My eyes are clenched tight, the world sways and pitches, and sharp bolts of cold lightning fire course up and down my spine and deep into my torso. It is all I can do to carry on breathing through my gritted teeth and stuttering heartbeat. 

After what feels like an age, I become aware of a murmur of voices above, a bright light shining into my eyes, and someone calling me, insistently. Then there are gentle hands on my shoulder and hip rolling me up onto my side, releasing the tormenting pressure off my back. I feel a scratch of a hypo-injector on my neck. The pain fades; a hand wipes tears of pain off my face and then there's nothing but a blissful encroaching dark.

I awake again a short while later hearing a voice crying out. Someone is in pain. I smell sweat and fear, fuel and smoke. Burnt plastoid and blood. Peeling open gritty eyes, I see a shadowed gloom, the curve of metal of a ship's hull, bodies scattered across the floor. The gunship crashed. My men are dead, they're all dead, and…

“Trapper?” I whisper. There aren't many left but someone is crying out in pain. Someone is still alive out there.

Nearby, a prone figure rolls its head in my direction. 

“Hey, General,” the clone trooper says, words slow and slurred, but strong. “Looks like we made it after all, huh?”

My tattered memory throws together the tiny distinctions of the voice, the Force signature, the armour…

“Trapper,” I say again. He's alive. He's here talking and he's alive. But I'd heard someone crying out. And if it wasn't Trapper...

“Someone's in pain,” I tell him, in case he doesn't know. “I heard...I think it's Copper. I have to help him, I have to…”

“Take it easy, General,” Trapper says in the slow, imprecise tones of the heavily medicated. “It’s one of the Novas, picked up some shrapnel. Doghouse is with him.”

“Where’s Copper?" I insist. "He was here, he…”

“Copper's dead, sir,” Trapper says, voice stripped back to nothing, just a sound. “Digit too. And Grapeshot, Marney and all of them. But we got out, remember? Waxer and Boil came for us. We’re waiting on dustoff now, but we got out.”

I blink, trying to follow what Trapper is telling me, though my thoughts seem slow and disjointed, like they’re under a cold frost. I can see other bodies scattered around, on stretchers or on the floor and yes, I realise now that I can see them moving, breathing. They're just injured. Not dead, not yet. This isn't the crashed gunship. We got out. I'm not there anymore.

I seem to be lying on my own stretcher, propped up on my side with one hand tucked beneath my cheek. The IV fluid pump is back, strapped to my left arm. It might not be working properly though because my mouth is so dry. I'm cold, so cold my whole body is trembling right through to my fingertips and I can't seem to stop it. 

“Are you…” I ask, hoping my voice is loud enough. “Are you all right?’

“I'm good, sir,” Trapper says. “Busted leg, few broken ribs. Folly stuck me with the good stuff when we arrived.” He rolls his head, grins conspiratorially. His first dose of painkillers must still working. In the same time I've gone through three or four shots. The downside of a Jedi metabolism. 

“How 'bout you, General?” Trapper asks. “You don't look so great.”

The pained voice in the distance cries out again and my head jerk towards the awful sound. The Force feels muddy and begrimed, tumescent with suffering.

“General?”

“‘m fine,” I say, though it comes out as a whisper; my mouth and throat are parched and I can’t seem to get the breath to speak. 

Across from me I can see Trapper is frowning. He turns his head away and shouts loudly.

“Sarge!”

I flinch a little at the sudden sound but it's lost in the tremors. I want to ask him what's wrong but I can't seem to form words. 

”Sarge!” Trapper yells again. 

“Yeah?” Someone shouts back from far away.

“It’s the general."

There's the sound of voices and movement and then Doghouse appears with another trooper in tow. I see him pat Trapper's shoulder on the way past and then he crouches before me. 

“General - you're awake already.” 

Doghouse starts taking my pulse, blood pressure and a host of other annoying tests. His assistant is inspecting the IV pump. “Hoped that jab would have knocked you out for a while yet. Are you in any pain?”

“I'm quite well,” I croak at him. “What's our situation?”

Doghouse makes some notes on a datapad, looking distracted.

“No sign of any enemy movement in the immediate area,” he says, still typing. “Commander Cody just reported in that the ground assault forces are in position to start the attack.”

Everything going to plan so far, then. Of course there was still plenty of time for things to go wrong and Anakin is still facing the most critical and dangerous part of the assault. But at least the medic's words mean I haven't been insensible for long. Thirty minutes at most.

“Very good,” I say. "I want to speak to the ranking officer." My voice seemed appropriately firm to my own ears but the medics don't seem to be listening to me. Instead Doghouse is looking over at his assistant. 

“BP’s dropped again, 50 over 40, and I don't like that core temp. 34.8. I've got tachypnea, tachycardia…How're those fluids looking?”

“Almost through the second pack,” the trooper is saying, and I hear a beep, probably the IV pump. I rest my eyes while the pair set about inspecting the bacta dressings on my abdomen and back. I probably ought to sit up to make their task easier but they haven't asked me to move yet for which I am exceedingly grateful.

“All right,” I hear a tired voice saying. Probably Doghouse, though he isn’t speaking to me. “Get a clotting fluid, three more bacta packs and one of the good blankets. We've gotta do something about the shock.”

Ah, of course. The internal bleeding. I was supposed to be suppressing that. I had forgotten, and now my grasp of the Force seems tremulous, uncertain. I reach out and draw the Force close, weaving myself gently into it...

“General. General Kenobi.” I open my eyes again. Doghouse is crouching beside me, tapping my face. “Stay awake, please.”

I don't bother to correct him that I had been meditating, not sleeping, but at least they are acknowledging my presence again. “How are the men?” I ask, my breaths coming strangely fast, like I have been running. I really could use a healing trance about now.

“Holding on,” Doghouse tells me, not committing much information.

“Numbers? Severity?”

He briefly looks as if he is considering not answering me at all, but my authority still has some influence, even over Doghouse. “Fourteen injured Cat-2 or Cat-3s in this ship, another 23 Cat-4s outside. Fully fit troopers are Nock, three sentries, and me. No more Cat-1s.”

That's good news. Category 1 is deceased, so no-one else has died since Doghouse took over. The most at risk are the Cat-2 group: injuries that are time critical. They will continue to rapidly deteriorate without surgery or bacta immersion. Cat-3 are other stable but non-mobile injuries and Cat-4 walking wounded. 

Before I can ask more, the wounded man by the far wall starts groaning loudly once again. It sounds very bad. 

“Go help him,” I instruct the medic. He looks around for a second, torn between his responsibilities, and then nods. 

“Nock will be back in a moment,” Doghouse tells me. “Just lie still, General, and don’t move. I mean it,” he says and then he is gone. 

As he leaves, winding his way amongst the stretchers, I realise how unfair it had been of me to leave this many wounded to the care of just one medic. I should have had Folly or Coric stay behind too. But it is too late for realising that mistake now. All I can do is hope no more of our men pay for it with their lives.

I feel more alert by the time the assistant medic returns, although the tremors have gotten worse, each shiver sending uncomfortable jolts up my damaged spine. The trooper sets about replacing the thin foil blanket over me with a self-warming one, lined with inbuilt heating elements.

I thank the trooper and ask him his name. He gives me a slightly strange look.

“It’s Nock, sir. CT-5761?”

Of course. I've known Nock for months. He's in Ghost Squadron. I'm becoming confused, forgetful. Another side effect of the hypovolemic shock, no doubt.

“Yes, yes. Nock; I remember. You'll have to forgive me. I'm not myself.”

“Of course, sir.”

At first I could barely feel the blanket he has laid over me but now the warmth is suffusing even the numbness of my limbs. It’s _ excellent _. While I drowse in the warmth, Nock continues to connect up the next pack of fluids to the IV pump. Doghouse hasn't returned and in the distance another trooper starts coughing, painfully.

Something is wrong.

"How many injured men are there here?” I ask, lifting my head to look around.

“Not sure, sir,” Nock says as he works. “Forty, maybe? No, it’s fewer. Thirty-seven.”

“And our supplies?” 

“They're fine, sir,” says Nock, but this time there is the faintest hint of hesitation about the words. 

“Trooper…” I warn. 

“We’re...uh...running low,” Nock confesses. 

“Low on what?”

“Pressure bandages, bacta shots, bacta packs and analgesics.”

“How low? I want the truth; that's an order."

“All but out, sir,” he admits. “We lost a lot of supplies.”

_Damn_. Relief ships will be able to reach us with supplies or for evac as soon as Anakin has the shield down. But who knows when that will be, or how many wounded he and his men might accrue in the doing.

On my right, Nock is reaching for one of the dressings on my torso, infusing bacta into what is probably my liver or some other unimportant organ. I catch his wrist.

"No,” I tell him. “Leave it.”

“I'm just changing the dressings over, sir,” Nock tells me, soothingly. “These ones are almost used up.”

“Yes, and you also just told me our supplies are low. Leave it be.”

Nock hesitates. “Sorry sir, but the sergeant ordered me to…”

“And I am ordering you not to. We must ration what we have left. I am not letting you waste supplies.”

“Sir,” Nock is trying to sound stern, but he's no Cody, or Doghouse either for that matter. “I'm not a medic but both Doghouse and Folly said you needed constant bacta to keep your injuries stabilised.”

“And should they become unstable I'll be sure to let you know.” 

Nock just stares at me, helplessly. 

“Are we short on stims?” I ask.

“We’ve no shots left, sir, but I think there's plenty of capsules.”

I hold out my hand and the trooper starts disagreeing almost immediately.

“Sergeant Doghouse said--”

“I'm not intending to take a whole pack,” I tell him. “But these painkillers aren't very effective and I need to be able to function if something happens. I promise I will inform the medics of everything I've taken as soon as we get evacced. Acceptable?”

I continue to hold out my hand and eventually Nock gives in. He digs a pack of stim capsules out of a medical kit, snaps the pack in two and drops one half of them into my palm. 

“They're not pain relief, sir,” he points out again. “Just a temporary boost, and you're going to feel even worse when it wears off. And if you take too many--”

“I understand, Trooper; I am quite familiar with the side effects.”

I toss one of the pills into my mouth and bite down on the casing, breaking it open with my teeth. The bitter fluid inside oozes out, the acidic taste coating my tongue, but I can feel it starting to work within seconds; my hands still their tremor, my vision clears and my confused thoughts start to crystallize into purposeful action.

“Now, tell me - who’s on comms?” I ask, as I stow the rest of the capsules into my pocket and start pulling my clothing back into place. My belt, armour, and ‘saber, I notice for the first time, have been stashed in a pile next to the stretcher.

“Sparker, sir,” Nock answers, glancing between the bag of medical supplies and the distant Doghouse like he's still hoping for tactical support.

“Very well. Now, I need to know how the assault is progressing, so if you wouldn't mind helping me up I shall go and find him.” 

Nock, of course, starts instantly protesting my proposed course of action, and it is only after I start to sit up anyway that he finally stirs himself to assist me. 

Movement certainly isn't comfortable but I've been through worse, so before long I am sitting up, leaning against the transport wall. From this position I can see the worst of the injured troopers around me; camo and white clad figures stacked inside the space like battery cells in a power converter. The portside hatch is open and beyond I can see nothing but harsh light. 

“You really shouldn't try and move, sir,” pipes up Trapper from his stretcher, who it turns out isn't asleep at all.

Nock, desperation in his tone, adds; “He’s right. If you stay here, sir, I'll go and find out if any news has come in and report back. Only _ please _ stay here. If anything else happens to you Commander Cody will _ murder _ me.”

I hesitate and then take pity on the man. “Very well,” I tell him with a sigh “I won't move so long as I get an update.”

The corporal hurries off and I am left once more alone and yet at the same time surrounded by silent troopers, and with a sense of profound and uncomfortable _ deja vu _. I retrieve my possessions and dress myself again, being slow and careful, and then once more the only sensible use of my time is to rebalance myself in the Force and to take back control of the bleed and fractures.

It is working rather successfully until a sense of uneasiness starts to grow in my mind, drawing me from my trance. Some time has passed, ten minutes at least, but Nock hasn't returned. None of the uninjured troopers have come back into the LAAT for some time, and now I have this creeping, pressing feeling of imminent danger.

Something is about to happen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Suddenly this defeat, this rain' has been crazy popular, and a lot of people asked if a sequel might happen. It happened, and all thanks to you guys and your continued kudos and comments on a fic that's now over 18-months old. 
> 
> This hasn't been beta'd so as usual, please shout out if you see anything I've missed. If by coincidence anyone is willing to beta the rest, please shout louder!
> 
> In other news, I still haven't given up on Weeds but it's proving to be a real slog. I promise you that it will be finished some day, and now this is done it'll go back to being number one priority again. Thanks again for your unending support and enthusiasm; it gives me life.
> 
> I am not a doctor, and don't even play one on TV.
> 
> NB: Now edited following beta by the awesome TrickyTricky!


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much TrickyTricky for all your help knocking this into shape! Super job.  
Any mistakes are, of course, mine.

Something is about to happen. 

I had promised to remain stationary on the condition that I received news, but that has not been forthcoming, and Nock also hasn't returned. Well then. I am not obligated to hold up my end of the agreement either.

“What's going on?” asks Trapper as I slowly and carefully get to my feet, using the wall of the gunship as a support. I’ve decided to keep hold of the warming blanket for now, wrapping it around my shoulders and tucking the loose ends into my belt. The IV pump I detach from my arm and leave on the stretcher. It's a pain to cart the thing around, and for now the hindrance is not worth the benefit. 

“I'm not sure,” I answer Trapper while peering out towards the open hatchway. I can’t make out much outside but nothing seems to be on fire quite yet. “I am going for a quick look around.”

“If Cody gets back and finds out you’ve been disobeying medic's orders,” Trapper tells me with the honesty of the heavily drugged, “he's gonna confiscate your lightsaber, stuff you in the brig and leave you there all the way back to Coruscant.”

“I don't doubt it,” I agree. “But he'd have to find out about it first. So perhaps you'd like to keep that between us?”

Trapper just snickers in reply, so I decide to take the moral high ground and walk away. I carefully pick my way between the sleeping and injured men packed into the downed ship; there’s no sign of the medic but I hear clattering noises from inside the cockpit. Perhaps that is where Doghouse is taking stock of our dwindling supplies. 

The light coming through the portside hatch is achingly bright and I have to shade my eyes as I reach the edge of the ship. I pause in the hatchway, leaning on the bulkhead as my aching eyes blink the sandy landscape before me slowly into focus. In the red light of the baleful Geonosian sun, I can see groups of other figures, perhaps 25 or 30 more wounded men, huddled in the paltry shade thrown down by the crippled personnel carriers and tanks. Many of them are sporting clearly visible dressings or medical supports on injured limbs. A few have more serious looking bandages across their torsos or heads; I see at least two potentially disfiguring injuries even amongst these less seriously wounded. Injuries that may well lead to medical discharges when we make it home.

“General Kenobi?” asks a voice nearby. I look down and see a couple of troopers in the armour of the 21st Novas, Ki-Adi-Mundi’s corps, sitting in the shade of the transport. They seem to have been passing the time by building little towers of red pebbles reminiscent of the distant rocky pillars that litter the planet’s surface. One of the troopers has a thickly bandaged arm held in close with a sling and one ankle raised up on an empty munitions case. The one that spoke has a bandage wrapped diagonally across his face, covering the right eye, and dried blood is smeared across his chestplate.

“At ease,” I quickly tell them in case they’re thinking of getting up. “I’m just trying to find the ranking officer. My commlink seems to be broken."

“CT-4412, sir, they call me Rind," says the first Nova. It's standard protocol for troopers to give their idents first when dealing with a new officer. He salutes, and then nudges the helmet sitting in the dirt beside him. "All the comms went down about half an hour ago, sir. Nothing coming through but static."

"Crater, CT-1357," says the second trooper, the one with the bandaged head. "You'll want the sergeant, Doghouse; he's up in the lartie cockpit."

No good. The last trooper I want to see right now is Doghouse, and besides I need information from the lookouts.

“Who is manning the patrol?” I ask instead, gesturing out across the sands.

The Nova trooper who called himself Rind glances to the west. "A 212th corporal went out that way with one of the other uninjured troopers.” 

“And the lookout stations?”

Crater nods. “Up there and over there, sir.” He points to the east and north-west and I spot two white-clad figures crouched on the turrets of damaged AT-TE tanks. They’re some distance away, and I can’t see the corporal at all. If I want to find out what's going on I am going to have to walk.

“Very well. Thank you.”

I turn away from the Nova troopers and determinedly step out onto the sand. Predictably, my legs give out the moment I let go of the bulkhead and I stumble, jolting my back painfully. I manage to stay standing at least, but only because I grab the side of the ship again and cling onto it for all I am worth.

“Are you alright, sir?” The Nova trooper asks, as I breathe, a little raggedly.

“I need to speak with the corporal,” I explain once I have gathered myself. “It may be rather urgent, but I’m afraid I’m a little unsteady…”

“Let me help, General,” Crater volunteers. “Nothing wrong with my legs.” He pats his injured companion Rind on the shoulder and stands. 

“Are you certain?” I ask. “I don't want you to exacerbate your injuries...”

“Don't worry, sir. It's just a little shrapnel.”

Crater comes over to me, and I let go of the ship, transferring my arm onto his shoulders. 

“Where are we going, sir?” he asks as I let him take my weight. He seems steady enough; I feel guilty relying on this injured man for assistance, but I don’t seem to be able to walk alone, and if I can’t find the source of this nagging feeling of danger the Force is sending me, I sense we will all be in trouble.

“I need to speak to the corporal, and someone who can fix the comms.”

“Right, sir. Is something wrong?”

“I’m not certain,” I say, as we make our slow, unsteady way across the sand. A number of the other injured troopers scattered outside the ship shuffle out of our way if they can, and a few of the 212thers call out with offers of further assistance. I wave them off, gently. They need the rest. “I am not certain but I feel that something is not right.”

“You think we'll be attacked, sir?” Crater asks. “But the fighting’s twenty kliks from here.”

“I know,” I tell him. “But that’s precisely why I’m concerned.”

The defensive circle of tanks and transports that Cody had made around the drop point had become broken up as all the functioning units were driven off to play their parts in the assault at the shield generator. Five of the most badly damaged craft were left abandoned here at Point Rain. Behind us is the most intact, the LAAT/i that is functioning as ark and shelter for the injured. Glancing back I recognise that it is Cody's gunship, the _ Saber's Edge_. Adjacent is a badly burned AT-TE with its legs shot out from under it; the tank has been left squatting on its belly, casting a low shade over the men scattered on the sand beside it. Across the circle to the north there is the remains of another tank, and a few hundred metres away to the south are a pair of a disabled gunship and a crippled tank, little use to us anymore except to offer some elevation for the lookouts. It's a bad place to try and defend.

The sand around us is stained and burned, but I notice as we head to the northern tank that most of the debris has been cleared away and that there are no bodies within the circle, neither our troops nor the enemy's. 

When we arrive at the northern AT-TE, I can see the mass driver cannon had taken a direct hit at some point during the battle, and the subsequent explosion has torn a huge hole in the plating where the driver’s compartment should have been. Though the arm of the cannon is twisted and hanging loose, the turret must still provide good visibility across the land to the north. The trooper keeping watch from the top of the tank is a man from the 212th I recognize as Switchback. He calls down to us but doesn’t leave his post.

“General? Something happening?”

“Have you anything to report, Switchback?”

“No sign of clankers or bugs, sir,” he shouts down. “Thought I saw some movement an hour ago but no sign of anything since.”

“Very well. Carry on, but keep sharp.”

We turn around and head off south towards the two vehicles on the far side of the ring, Crater competently supporting me while I shuffle along like an old man. The southern defences are only around 150 metres away, I know, but it seems a vast distance across the sand swirling and dipping with a shimmer of heat. I can't feel it; I’m still chilled despite the blanket I have draped around my shoulders like a cape. I shouldn't feel cold. It’s after midday now and the bitter red sun is beating down on the desert. It's heating the battlefield too and with that comes a rising stench and foulness of decay. 

And then, as we pass the open, undefended side of the circle, I see them. A team of troopers must have worked tirelessly during those few hours of preparation time earlier to gather up the dead of Point Rain. They've laid their brothers side by side in a natural hollow in the sand, and further off I see the dead Geonosian corpses in a pile. No time to bury any of them and the bodies from both sides of the conflict are baking slowly under the merciless sun, and the reek of the blood and the bloated animal stench of death drags me right back again to the Geonosian Arena, to the atavistic frenzy of the screeching crowd, the fetid stink of the beasts and the metallic tang of the droid factories, of realising I was about to die for a passing moment of amusement for those creatures and for the cruel designs of my master’s master. Of the awful weight of the knowledge I'd gained, that Dooku had betrayed us, that the war had already begun and that it was all for nothing because I would be dead before I could warn anyone. At least Anakin wasn't here. At least he wouldn't have to witness this. At least… And then Anakin _ is _ there, and then there's the frantic, desperate fight against the arena's beasts and then Mace and Yoda and the clone army - an entire _ army _ \- and Jedi falling, falling in their tens, their hundreds, and even though Anakin and I live, even though Mace and Yoda, Ki-Adi, Plo, Aayla and Kit and Padme Amidala all make it, even when the tide turns and we start clawing back a slow victory, I feel part of my soul withering away because I’m finally starting to realise just what has begun. The trap we have willingly sprung about ourselves. Because just by letting the war begin, we've already lost.

“General!”

I come back to myself with a start. We've stopped walking, and that is because my legs have given out. Crater is trying to hold me up while I am slumping forwards, almost on my knees. I stagger, vision going grey, trying to straighten up; Crater is struggling under my limp weight and then there's a shout and a two troopers are running up. I grasp someone's forearm and between them they manage to get me back up on my feet and more or less steady.

“What's going on? What's happened?” one of them asks, and someone else says:

“Sir, are you alright?” 

I ignore both questions, squinting up against the harsh sun to determine who has come to our rescue. It's the corporal I've been looking for, Reed, and with him is Nock, the trooper who was acting as medical assistant to Doghouse earlier. 

“Corporal, I need a full report.”

To his credit, Reed doesn't argue with me. 

“Sir. We lost all comms from the main battle group about forty minutes ago, probably a relay station burning out. Last we heard, Cody reported that the offensive had started. They were facing heavy resistance but General Skywalker was pushing on.”

“Very well. How's our position here?”

Reed's helmet tilts to the side, making him look briefly surprised. “Nothing to report, sir." He gestured over to the crashed gunship on the southern perimeter. "Sparker is on lookout at the _ Nubian Belle; _ he saw something off to the west and called us over to take a look, but it turned out to be nothing.”

Reed hesitates and I know he's about to ask me if I've been medically cleared to walk about. I don't let him get the chance. 

“Switchback reported the same thing on the northern perimeter," I inform them. "But I don't believe it was nothing. I think those were advance scouts. We should expect to be attacked, and soon.”

“Why would they attack us, sir? Shouldn’t the bugs be focussing on the main force?” asks Reed.

Crater agrees. “What do we have out here that they could possibly want?” 

“We have our lives,” I remind them. “And I expect that is something they would be more than happy to take. We need to be ready for them. Corporal, we have to take stock of whatever weapons we have. Everyone needs to be under cover; get all the injured men still out in the open into the _ Saber's Edge _if there's space, if not into the tank beside it. Nock - head back to the_ Nubian Belle _and relieve Sparker as lookout. Send him to me, I need him to get our comms back up and running as quickly as possible. All of you: keep your eyes open and look to the south. Credits are that's where the attack will come from. And someone needs to inform anyone still standing that we’re expecting trouble. Crater - are there other men amongst the walking wounded who might be able to fight, if necessary?”

“Yes, sir. Most of us ought to be able to shoot, even if we can’t get about too well.”

“Good. Let’s see this done. Nock: to your post. Reed and Crater: with me.”

“Why the south, sir?” Reed asks as we set off back across the battleground towards Cody's gunship. He doesn't offer to take over being human crutch from Crater or try to hold onto my other arm; instead I can see he's drawn his weapon, his eyes alertly scanning for any signs of trouble. I approve.

“The ridge,” I explain. “Any enemies will be able to get in nice and close before we can hit them. They tried to attack that way before, though we had enough firepower then to see them off.”

Not the case now, unfortunately. We hurry back to the base as quickly as we can and I see Doghouse standing in the doorway of the _ Saber's Edge _beside Crater’s injured comrade Rind. The Nova trooper is pointing over at us. Doghouse sees us approaching and storms over. 

“Uh oh,” mutters Crater, quietly. “Looks like we're in trouble now…”

“General Kenobi!” Doghouse snaps as he marches up. “I'd ask you what the hell you think you're doing, _ sir_, if I believed there was any chance you were thinking at all--”

As Doghouse descends into one of his infamous dressing-downs, I can feel Crater beside me stiffening in surprise; I doubt the Novas talk to Ki-Adi-Mundi like this. But medics always are a law unto themselves, and Doghouse acquired his name for a reason. However, there is no time at present to indulge his tendency for insubordination.

“Sergeant,” I say, sharply.

Doghouse stops mid sentence.

“The general has a bad feeling,” Reed explains from my side. 

Doghouse looks quickly between us.

“How bad?” he asks.

I don’t answer, which is probably answer enough. Instead, I let go of Crater's shoulder and point to the north. “Crater. Run over to Switchback, tell him that we’re expecting company.”

“Yes, sir,” Crater says promptly, without argument, and is gone.

“Uh, General?” says another voice to our right. I turn and see a dozen faces looking up at us. Doghouse's outburst has created something of a scene. The speaker is Ash, another 212th corporal. His right arm is bandaged fingertips to elbow; looks like a blaster exploded in his hand. I manage not to wince.

"Is something wrong, sir?” Ash asks again, glaring at Doghouse.

I sigh a little, but this is as good a time to tell them as any. 

“Unfortunately, yes.” I pitch my voice to all the troopers sitting around the LAAT. “Alright men, listen up. I’m afraid we are very likely about to be attacked again.”

There is some low murmuring amongst the injured troopers. 

“Clankers or bugs, sir?”

“I can’t predict the type nor size of the force,” I tell them. “But I will not deceive you nor give you false hope; whatever the number of our attackers, it is quite likely that they will be more than we can match. I intend that we protect our injured as long as we can, and if it comes to it, to sell our lives dearly.”

There is a stunned silence for a second at my brutal honesty, and then a few heads nod in the crowd. They understand, of course they do. It may sound like I have just condemned them all to death, but there is no point pretending the situation is any less hopeless than it is. The clone troopers spend almost every day anticipating it might be their last, and for so many today has been. That these men in particular should have survived everything this wretched planet has thrown at us - crash landings and fortresses and desperate last stands - only for them to be slaughtered here, injured and undefended...it seems unjust. Unbearably cruel. But we can do no more than we can do. And if the Force wills it, so it shall be.

I glance around the group. There are perhaps two dozen men out here. The majority are from my own battalion, a sea of white and orange, like scatters of old bone and amber across the barren rock. Here and there are the deep red of the Novas and sky blue of the 501st, little flecks of remnant seaglass washed up on this desolate shore. But as worn down and fragmented as they might be, there is strength in these men still, a core of stone. Singly, they may just be an insignificant speck within the vast universe, but together they will make a dangerous sandstorm.

“What’s the plan, General?” asks Reed. 

I draw breath to answer, but Doghouse interrupts, lifting over an empty ammo crate and dumping it onto the rock behind me.

“As you’re not actually running about right now, General, at least sit down,” the medic snaps, folding his arms. I deem it wiser not to argue, and Reed helps me sit, carefully.

I use the time to think fast, aware the men as still watching me, waiting for orders. What are our resources? What are our strengths? I bring to mind the list of the injured Cody had shown me earlier. What skills and abilities do we have amongst the men here that I can utilise?

“Very well,” I say. “This is the plan. The _ Saber's Edge _ here is our base. Any man who is still mobile is to report to Corporal Reed. You will be our first line of defence as sentries on the southern perimeter, stationed at the _ Nubian Belle. _ We have to know the moment the enemy makes their move, and you must hold that line as long as you can before you retreat back here. If you can still shoot but have limited mobility, you’ll be under the command of Corporal Ash, defending the _ Saber's Edge _ and the men who are more seriously injured. Is there a Sergeant Tobu here?”

“Here, sir.”

A trooper in 501st colours raises a hand; an engineer, I recalled, from Besh’s unit. He’s sitting on the floor, both legs splinted.

“All right. Tobu has command over all technical, arms, and engineering issues. Tobu, I need you to look over the AT-TEs, see if any of the cannons are functional. We can try and find any tools you need; anyone else here have engineering experience to assist?”

Two other men, Oski from Ghost Squadron and another man from the 501st, volunteer.

“Good," I nod to them, starting to feel encouraged. "Report to Tobu once the briefing is over. Now, I need an evaluation of all weapons and ammo. Skipper, check every blaster; I want to be sure-”

There’s a dense quiet that stops my words. 

“Skipper is dead, sir,” Ash says. "He was on the _ Bad Kitty."_

Damn. I hadn't known that. Hadn't realised that he was one of those aboard my gunship when it had crashed, was one of those lives lost. I press my fist up against my mouth, just breathing for a moment. Skipper had been a good soldier. But weren’t they all?

“All right,” I say, not daring to think about Skipper, who had wanted to be a pilot but couldn’t pass the exam but had a mind for weapons like Cody had never seen, and it was rumoured he had once run out of ammo and been so angry about it he’d punched a droid's head in with his bare hands. I don’t think about him, or about Digit, who’s proudest achievement was the time he had been promoted and then demoted again within the space of two hours, or about poor Copper who’d once by accident managed to lock himself in the storage bay on the _ Negotiator _ for a whole night. I don't think about any of them. About how many had been trapped there on the gunship with me as we had plummeted to earth, about how I had been so open to the Force that I had literally felt every one of them die.

“Sir?”

The men are watching me. I pull myself together.

“A...All right. You.” I point to the nearest man, another of Anakin’s.

“Brix, sir.”

“Brix. Find out who still has their weapons and check them all. Tally up what ammo we’ve got left, power packs, and any grenades or droidpoppers. I don’t want any man left unarmed when the enemy arrives. You also report to Tobu.”

“Right on it, sir.”

I look around at their faces. Weary, determined, angry, tired... Dragged once again into a fight for their lives and the lives of their brothers, even though they’re already deemed too injured to fight. There’s no peace for them, even when the war is far away, even when, Force knows, they’ve earned it.

"Very well,” I tell them. “Helmets on, men. I don’t want to see a head without a lid again until General Skywalker returns. Go to your posts, see to your duties. Help each other, and watch over your brothers.”

At this point Anakin would have said something like “_Let’s give ‘em hell, boys!” _ or _ “See you on the flip side,” _ but I can’t. Not today.

“May the Force be with us,” I say instead. “Dismissed.”

The troopers, of course, fall immediately into swift action, following their orders they only way they know how; with courage and unflinching efficiency. I see the two corporals, Reed and Ash, moving between the men, tallying up those who can fight, those who could act as sentries, those whose injuries mean they can’t even fire a weapon. Tobu is briefing his assistants and Brix is checking the blasters of the men around him. Two of my troopers, Ketter and Cogwheel, are heading into the _ Saber_, probably to take weapons and ammo from the unconscious men inside, redistributing our resources to where they will have the most use.

I am proud of all of them. I just hope there is enough time for us to reinforce our position here before the enemy arrives, whatever form it shall take. The Force is resonating with warning, but not yet clamouring with it. There should be time.

Doghouse, meanwhile, is still standing nearby. He’s staring at me with his arms folded, and I know there’s a hundred things he probably wants to say. But what’s the use in demanding I lie down and rest when nearly every man here is hurt and none of us likely to survive until the main army returns?

“Doghouse,” I acknowledge his stormy scrutiny. “How are the Cat-2s and 3s?”

“Mostly stable,” he says, and then adds: “How many stims did you take?”

I sigh. I suppose it was inevitable that he would figure that out. “One, with no intention of taking more unless the situation requires it.”

“Did you at least let Nock change out your bacta patches before you ran off?”

“Of course.”

“You're due more painkillers.” 

“I’m not in pain. What I am in need of is for you to get as many of the men mobile as possible, and then stay with the injured in the_ Saber's Edge _ and keep them stable. Can you manage for now without a medical assistant? I need Nock as a runaround out on the perimeter.”

“For now,” he says, but I can see he’s frustrated, angry. “Our supplies are badly depleted, General. We weren’t carrying enough at the offset, and then to be hit so hard at the landing and then stranded here? Some of the men in there will die if they don’t get surgical attention or full bacta immersion within the next hour. And as for you, sir; if you keep moving around there’s every probability you will end up with permanent damage, beyond what bacta can fix. Maybe paralyzed. Are you hearing me?”

I sigh, brushing a cold sweat off my face. “I understand, Doghouse, but I'm afraid there is little choice in the matter. Do what you can. Let us hope that Master Mundi and Knight Skywalker will have us off this rock before we lose anyone else.”

Doghouse sighs, nods, and moves away. I see him going between the groups of men, adjusting splints and slings to free up hands for shooting, or to support wounds as much as possible while allowing for motion.

Glancing towards our unprotected perimeter to the east, eyes drawn unwittingly back to the dark shadows where lie the piles of corpses, I spot two troopers approaching across the sand; Crater is returning back from the northern tank while Sparker is jogging up from the south. Crater arrives first with a salute. “General, Switchback's been briefed. He’s holding the line alone though, sir, should I go back him up?”

“No need just yet, Crater,” I tell him. All around us the other troopers have mobilised quickly, despite their injuries. The non-mobile troopers, those with leg or abdominal injuries, are finding defensible positions on and around the _Saber _ and the adjacent tank where the most injured are sheltering. Brix is moving around amongst them, rationing out power packs and grenades, and checking blasters. As for the others, a ragtag group of a dozen men are setting off, jogging or limping over to the more distant vehicles on the southern perimeter: the _ Nubian Belle _ and the stranded tank beside it. Alongside Reed’s men, they will be the first line of defence against whatever is coming. While the majority are heading for the south - the direction I am reasonably confident from which our enemies will come - I've also ordered Reed to send at least three men to support Switchback on the northern tank too, just in case of a surprise attack from that direction. It wouldn't do to start getting complacent now. I point them out to Crater, reassuring him that Switchback has the support he needs, and then I send Crater off to go and bring back a spare helmet. He's one of the only men out here still without one; no doubt his own was destroyed or severely damaged during the blast that caused his facial injuries. That won't do. Better a helmet taken from a dead man than no helmet at all.

Once Crater has headed off, I turn to Sparker. The trooper is patiently at my side, waiting to be acknowledged.

“Sparker. You’ve been brought up to speed on the situation?”

He nods. “Yes, General.”

He’s one of the youngest clones here, one of a batch of 100 freshly trained troopers transferred straight into the 212th from Kamino after the devastation on Felucia. That was barely three months ago now and he is the only one of his batchmates left. I had recommended him for the protection detail on the injured men perhaps because of some foolish notion of keeping him a little further from harm, to try and save at least one of the latest ‘shinies’. A ridiculous and no doubt pointless display of sentiment, but in fairness I am not entirely thinking straight at the moment. Pain, sharp and deep, grinding and insidious, is already eroding through the analgesics and stimulants circling in my blood. It's just so damn hard to _ think. _

“I want you to work on the comms," I instruct. "You got in some training with Livewire before he was killed, correct? Good. I want you to get helmet comms back up and running if at all possible. I need to be able to coordinate the men on the perimeters."

"I can keep trying the main radios, sir.” Sparker offers. “I might be able to get through to Commander Cody or General Skywalker for reinforcements.”

I pause, but it isn’t a difficult decision. We have poor cover, low ammunition, a bad defensive position and a combat force made up of men already deemed too badly wounded to fight. Without support there is little chance we will be able to hold Point Rain again. But I had been through the numbers with Ki-Adi earlier. There were barely enough men left in the main force to complete the attack on the shield generator. If they were informed, halfway through their own mission, that we were under attack, it would, at the least, distract them, and at worst conflict and divide them. If they failed, it would cost us the entire campaign. No. Better they only know afterwards. Anakin will be furious, but such is the cost of war. We will do this alone, or not at all.

"If you hear that the main force has succeeded and the ray shield is down, then you may inform Commander Cody of our situation," I tell him. "But not before."

“Yes, sir. Sir, a local comms system…” Sparker says, anxiously. “I don't think I know how to do that. I've only ever…”

“Try routing the signal through the main computer in the _ Saber's Edge_,” I suggest. “I think it is still functioning. Should be able to boost the radius of the signal enough that we can talk to each other without the relay station.”

He’s nodding. “That’s a good idea, sir. I think… yes, I can do that.” He glances at my wrist gauntlet, where my useless comm unit is blackened and charred. 

"I can't do anything about your comm though, sir. It's fried, I don't have the parts…”

“Don't worry about that for now. Just get me any kind of comms back up and running; that's your priority.”

“Yes, sir!” He says, and scurries off. 

I am only alone for a moment or two before Crater is back and now there's a helmet tucked under his arm. He holds it out for me but I shake my head.

“It's for you,” I tell him. “It would be terribly bad luck to be shot in the head twice in the same day, don't you think? Let us not tempt fate.”

“Thanks sir, but I'm not sure it'll fit over all this.” Crater gestures to the bulky bandages covering his left eye and ear. I have him crouch down on the ground so that I can help ease the helmet on over the mass of dressings. The 212th yellow of the helmet clashes with the deep red of his Nova armour. I purposefully don't read the aurebesh letters painted down the helmet's side, avoiding the burden of knowing the identity of the former owner. 

“Now," I ask, once we've jammed the helmet on his head. "Can you see well enough?”

Crater looks around. “A bit. As long as the bugs are no more than three metres in front of me in a straight line, I should be able to blast them.”

“Yes, well, let's hope they don’t get that close. A deal, then. If you'll continue to help me walk and listen out for anything over the comms, I'll make sure you’re facing the right direction when the shooting starts.”

I feel his amusement through the Force, and he nods. “Sure thing, General. Where are we off to now?” He ducks down, pulling my arm across his shoulders.

I'm braced this time, fully prepared for the pain of standing but it still almost takes my breath away, waves of hot, sharp pain and numbing sick coldness sweeping over me like an incoming tide. It takes a couple of moments of careful breathing before I can unclench my jaw to reply.

“Over there. I need an update on the cannons.”

I point to the nearest tank, the one collapsed onto its belly, where I can see the engineers working on the guns. Sergeant Tobu is sitting up on the hard red earth shouting up instructions to the troopers clambering around on top of the tank: Oski and another whose helmet reads _Seven-Seven. _It's not ideal - both Oski and Seven-Seven are injured themselves and if Tobu is anything like Anakin or Besh there's no way he'll be happy sitting around while there's engineering work to do. But with his injuries - both legs crushed - there isn't much of a choice.

Tobu sees us approaching. “General," he calls over, frowning. "Sorry sir, there's nothing to be done about the guns on the lartie. But the cannon here should be repairable. I think the problem is just impact stress, a rupture in the secondary coolant system, but I can't…”

His frustration is palpable. He needs to see the damage for himself.

“I can get you up there,” I tell him. “Lie still.”

He lies back unquestioning, utterly trusting, and suddenly, for the first time since I was a Padawan, I feel an awful doubt that I'll be able to achieve what I'm proposing, doubt that the Force will be with me. But I also know that this uncertainty and anxiety is just a byproduct of the mix of chemicals and excess adrenaline in my bloodstream and so I decide to pay it no mind. I centre myself in the Force and reach out for the prone man, ready to lift him up.

Despite my fears it isn't a difficult task, even with Tobu's damaged legs to consider. Still, I take it slowly and carefully, raising the trooper up off the floor into the air, and depositing him gently down into the flat roof of the tank where he can see the damaged components. 

As I would expect, the engineers don't waste any time; as soon as Tobu is set down on the roof, I see three helmets immediately bend in over the control panel and hear the rapid fire words and scrape of tools. Perhaps they'll be able to get at least some of the cannons working. We might even get everyone armed and comms up and running before the enemy arrives. 

Of course, it is at that moment that I hear blaster fire. I turn sharply to the south and see laser bolts flashing, and troopers darting to and fro across the red earth. 

We’re under attack.


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read and edited by the wonderful TrickyTricky, deserving of all praise!

“Crater, with me!”

I throw the blanket off my shoulders and set off towards the fighting without a second thought; staggering, half running. I can see the figures of the distant troopers on the southern perimeter sheltering behind the tank or the LAAT, firing out into the desert. They had reached their posts not a moment too soon. I can't yet see the enemy clearly, just the flash of bolts that identifies them as Geonosians, and a sense of movement out beyond the Republic ships. It might be ten bugs. It might be a hundred.

“Sir!” says a voice and Crater appears at my side, grabbing onto my arm and pulling it over his shoulder. I don’t pause, though I feel my gait even out as he takes my weight.

“Comms?” I yell, breathless, as we run towards the battle. 

“Nothing, sir,” Crater shouts back. “Static.”

_ Damn and kriff it. _ We’re not ready.

Blaster bolts are screaming through the air as we reach the southern perimeter. Reed is at the stern end of the _ Belle_, shouting to his men, arm signals sharp and urgent. We duck in behind the shelter of the transport as bolts fly by. 

“General!” Reed yells in greeting. “We’ve got about thirty bugs, south side.”

Thirty? That wasn't so bad; fewer than I had feared, at any rate. I duck down and peer around the end of the ship. The Geonosians are about 300 metres away, just the far side of the ridge. The men have them all pinned down for now but we don't have the ammunition to hold them for long, and I see three or four of them hovering, wings buzzing angrily as they wait for the perfect moment to swoop in and attack. 

I have my 'saber hilt in my hand, ready to counter the energy blasts ricocheting all around us off the transport’s hull, but I am forced to pause. The moment I ignite the blade, it will be immediately apparent that a Jedi is here. For the moment this small group of attackers look like a band of scavengers, come to clear up the last few survivors left defenseless out in the desert. If the clones prove to be too difficult a battle, there’s a chance the Geonosians will just abandon the attack entirely and skulk off for easier prey. But the moment I reveal myself to them, everything will change. They might flee in terror of course, but it is far more likely that a Jedi presence here, and by implication a Jedi who may be injured, will send them into a fury. Even if their blood lust can be restrained, the bounties being offered by the Separatists for captured Jedi are nothing less than obscene, and I will likely make us more a target. By trying to defend them I may put my men in further danger.

I only hesitate for a moment before someone recognises my dilemma. 

“Sir!” calls a voice from above, and I see Cogwheel and Ketter hunkered down on the top of the gunship. Cogwheel tosses a spare DC-15S towards me and I catch it out of the air with the Force, giving a grateful nod. I find blasters clumsy and inaccurate, but that is not to say I am incompetent with one, or will refuse a functional weapon if there is the need. I start firing immediately, taking out two of the bugs as they try to flank us to the right. Their chitinous bodies fall with cracks onto the rocky ground.

It is a short and messy fight but while the Geonosians have the advantage in numbers, we have the better cover, and slowly, through a shower of whistling bolts, we whittle down their numbers. After perhaps ten minutes, around half their force are down, while only one of my troopers has taken further injury with Wyatt taking a blaster bolt to the shoulder. He’s bleeding badly and two of the others have to drag him back to safety towards the _ Saber's Edge_.

Despite the injured man, I’m starting to feel like perhaps we really can make it after all, when all of a sudden the remaining Geonosians take to the air en masse and rush towards us. At the same time I hear a crackle of blaster fire from behind us across the plateau and then the distinctive _ whine-pop _ of a droidpopper grenade. For a moment, I can’t risk taking my eyes off the attacking force, too busy bringing down the nearest insectoid, but I then hear shouting and a trooper is approaching from the north at a flat-out run. It's Switchback.

“Clankers!” he is yelling. “General, we got droids incoming to the north! Two dozen or more!”

Kriff. This is precisely what I had feared. I hear a curse or two from the nearby men, but not one of them lets their concentration falter. 

"Understood!” I shout back, and give the standard hand sign too, in case Switchback can't hear me over the blaster fire; one arm held out at a right angle, and lowering the palm twice from the elbow. _ Message received. _ Switchback repeats the gesture, turns again and sprints off towards the northern perimeter.

There’s no chance we can hold out, not fighting on two fronts, but what choice do we have? Only surrender, and that is no choice at all. 

“Nock, Cogwheel, Sorvi, Ketter," I shout over the din. "Follow Switchback! He needs reinforcements.”

"Sir!"

"Yes, General!"

The four men I just named break from the line and start to run as fast as their injuries will allow back to the northern tank. 

No time to worry about them any further; blaster fire around us is so thick it's painting the air red and green, and bolts are screaming in past our heads. And now we've had to split our defences again there are only six of us defending this line - myself and Reed, as well as Crater, Fib, Widget and Pinball, and the bugs are still trying to fly around the _ Nubian Belle_, and breach our fragile defences. One, a large male, tries to break past the stern of the ship, and Reed and I both have to concentrate our fire to force him back. 

We’re still holding them off, but it is clear that won't last. The area of Point Rain between the rough circle of the downed vehicles is simply too large to defend, perhaps 150m in diameter. At the moment the enemy are hemmed in by the natural ridge they've retreated behind, but the moment they find enough courage to push past it, they are going to break through. The moment even just one of the enemy gets in behind us, we're done for. 

It is with that cheery realisation that I hear it; the growling roar of an engine. I recognize it immediately - an AAT-1 armoured assault tank. A separatist tank. 

"Take cover!" I shout even as the tank itself grinds into view, rising up over the ridge to the south. Less than two seconds later it opens fire, short range blasters strafing across the tattered, crippled LAAT that is our only shelter. I glance out in time to see the tank crest the ridge and the top cannon swivels, aiming straight towards us. The Geonosians scatter to either side as the gun powers up, ready to destroy everything in its path.

I drop the blaster rifle and draw my saber. I have to make a dash for that turret - I can probably cripple the primary laser cannon before I get shot down - and it might buy the men enough time to retreat back to the _ Saber's Edge_. 

I'm on my feet, ready to run, and then Crater and Widget are both yanking me back and yelling “General, get down!” and I am buried under an unwanted shield of troopers and armour. Then, there’s a great _ boom _ and a streak of fire and metal tears through the air just centimetres above our heads, but it is the enemy tank that crumples on impact as the anti-tank shell hits. Across the plateau behind us our AT-TE fires a second time and from under Crater’s arm I see the second shell hit the enemy tank too. The AAT-1 lets out a creak and a belch of black smoke, and two Geonosians tumble out of the destroyed turret hatch. 

I manage to twist enough to glance up at the four troopers crouching above me and so I see the exact moment our comms come back online; every one of the men suddenly tilts his head to one side, listening, as helmet earpieces buzz into life. 

Our AT-TE cannon unleashes a stream of blue laser fire across the plateau and the Geonosians fall back, shrieking. Seems like Tobu and his men have got the shell gun and cannon working, and, with not a second to lose, Sparker has also restored local comms. Both are invaluable and they’ve bought us time. But not much - where there is one AAT tank there will no doubt be more incoming, and the battledroids to the north will quickly overrun Switchback and his small squad unless I can send more men to support them. We are running out of time and options. 

Reed hauls me back up on my feet, and I am still clipping my ‘saber back onto my belt as I start shouting out orders to the firing troopers.

“Fall back, Fall back to base. Crater, comm Tobu; tell him we're retreating back to his position but he's to keep firing on the AATs. I want Switchback to hold out if he can, at least three minutes, then bring his men in retreat to the _ Saber_. The rest of you, fall back, and give me some cover.”

“You heard the General!” Reed shouts. “Move it!” 

As one the men leap down from the _ Nubian Belle _ and start to run backwards towards the _ Saber's Edge_, laying down cover fire. The Geonosians quickly realise they have us in retreat and dart in past their crippled tank towards the newly abandoned gunship, howling and clattering. The troopers don't let up firing even as we give ground, keeping their eyes and blasters on the enemy. About me on both sides Widget, Reed, Pinball and Fib rain a constant stream of blaster bolts down onto the bugs, pinning them down at the southern perimeter. If the troopers keep firing a barrage at this intensity they'll drain their power packs in minutes. But I only need them to keep it up for just a little longer. I have to concentrate, draw on the Force...I have to... 

I snatch another couple of stim capsules from my pocket and toss them into my mouth. I permit Crater to drag me about twenty metres back from the line while the drug begins to work; within moments I taste the acrid burn of the adrenaline, feeling it jolt through my faltering body like electricity. Normally a Jedi should need no stimulant to reach the Force. But, whatever the Senate or the Supreme Chancellor might think, Jedi are not soldiers, and the battlefield is not where the Force flows most pure. The awful, terrible pain clawing at me like some wild beast shouldn’t be an imposition to control of myself or the Force. But it is. Right now, it is. And if, this one time, a little chemical assistance is what it takes to keep my men alive, then I will gladly embrace it and submit myself to one of Yoda’s lectures later.

Crater is yelling in my ear. I pull away from his arm and turn back to face the perimeter and our downed gunship. Crater and Corporal Reed are shouting too and trying to pull me back to safety, all while firing over my shoulders into the bugs swarming towards us.

But I am not listening to them. I am listening to the Force. 

I let the present go and ease myself into its current, finding the place of stillness I am searching for. I raise my hands, palms out, and there's a tearing of metal. I hear a creaking groan, and then the _ Nubian Belle, _ the crashed gunship we had been sheltering behind, is dragged up from the red earth. I move back, using the Force to lift the _ Belle _with me, holding it up and hauling it on and then dragging the carcass of the wrecked ship behind. My hands are shaking, lungs burn and I can't do this alone, but there are arms on mine; someone pulling me on even as I pull the ship along behind us, limping, staggering. Black spots are swarming across my sight, vision going dim, ears clamouring like a warning claxon but the _ Belle _ is still moving. I just have to maneuver it to where it is needed. Turning, turning, closing off the circle, the area too big to defend. Use the gunship to block our vulnerable flank, that's the plan. Abandon the outer reaches of Point Rain, contract right down to the smallest area: protect the base, where the men too injured to fight lie helpless. I'm being pulled along, pushing the ship ahead now, clenching the Force around it, an iron fist. Look up: this is it. The right place. The best I can do. Make sure the men are clear. Put the ship down, just here. Just here. Put it down. Drop it. Drop…

Awareness comes back like a wave. It's loud, so loud. Blaster fire, shouting. I am on the ground, face down on the red dirt. A tank fires, one of ours. Two more grenades go off, somewhere distant. There’s shouting closer by, right by my head. Then I'm moving, being dragged along the ground. Someone has hold of the back of my tunic, someone else has an arm and they are dragging me along, firing over my head. There’s distant yelling, more blaster fire. Absently, I feel stone scrape against my damaged back. This isn’t dignified, being pulled along like a sack of spare parts...I should get up. I should…

A passing darkness; a tide that rushes in and then flows away.

I come around moments later, throwing up blood. The latter is generally considered a bad sign, but that I woke up at all is something of a surprise. I wipe my mouth with a shaking hand and look up. I'm lying within a triangle of battered ships. Closest is the _ Saber's Edge, _ spilling its precious cargo of injured men out onto the red earth. At an angle beyond is the crippled AT-TE. And closing off the open side between them, dented and smoking, is the wreck of the _ Nubian Belle _lying where I had dropped it, blocking off the open side to make this rough uneven oasis of safety.

And as my eyes focus I see all three transports are covered with clambouring forms; white and amber, blood red, blue or camo brown, looking out over the gunships, firing out into the endless, burnt umber sky while all around the blaster bolts fall like unending snow.

The terrible cacophony of battle - shouts and blasters, the clatter of battledroids and the occasional boom of the cannon - is all around, a storm of weapons and noise. 

I take a moment to centre myself - clamp down once more on the internal bleeding and shore up the Force splints around my damaged spine - before I feel able to roll over, slow and weak. I am on the ground beside the open doorway of the _ Saber's Edge, _ packed with its stretchers of wounded men. There are more wounded than ever before now and no more room inside; like me most are outside on the ground, clustered under the wings of the gunship for what meagre protection they give. Even then, even prone and bleeding, men are still fighting; I see Trapper and Rind holding up blasters, firing up at Geonosians swooping overhead, even while Doghouse and Nock scramble around trying to stem bleeds and stabilize broken bones.

The remainder of the men who can still walk - perhaps fifteen of them - are still fighting, perched up on one of the three vehicles forming our defences or crouched in the gaps between, covering the weak areas between. I pick out Crater nearby on the _ Belle_, Tobu in the distance up on the AT-TE crouched over the cannon, Cyna and Blake sniping at incoming Geonosians. I turn my head, seeking the five uninjured troopers I'd unwittingly assigned to protect this hellhole. Reed and Sparker are on the wing of the _ Belle, _ blasting at a passing Geonosian on a speeder bike. Doghouse is in the doorway of the _ Saber, _ trying to stabilise a wounded clone, Nock at his side. There's no sign of Switchback, though I can see the troopers I sent to help him are on the ground, defending a seven or eight-metre gap between the stern of the _ Belle _ and the cockpit of the _ Saber _ to the west_. _ I must have passed out before the _ Belle _ was quite in position and dropped the gunship too soon. The defensive triangle isn't quite complete.

There are three troopers there, Sorvi, Ketter and Cogwheel. They've gotten hold of a stack of blast shields from somewhere and they're holding the gap for now, but I can see the press of battledroids beyond, half a squadron or more. I won't be able to climb up onto the gunships, but that gap is where I can still make a difference. That's where I should be.

I stagger up, noting the tidal wave of pain has withdrawn one again leaving a dull absence throughout my body. Someone must have administered another pain shot while I was briefly insensible. It doesn't really matter now - it seems that, one way or another, stockpiling our resources is unlikely to prove necessary. But even the absence of pain isn't a great relief to me: without it there is just an emptiness, a void filled with dull fog. I know I have very little strength left; my heart is fluttering, uneasy and erratic, my skin feels cold and my numb hands barely move when I try to unclip my lightsaber. I fumble the hilt, dropping it the first couple of times but at last manage to raise it up, ready. My last stand. Our last stand.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters. I just have to fight. My targets are the droids trying to force their way through the gap between the stern of the _ Belle _ and the prow of the _ Saber_. The men there are hard pressed. They need me.

I set off for the gap and manage to keep hold of my 'saber the whole way until I reach the line and then I have to dodge a stray blaster bolt and I stumble; my numb fingers lose their grip and the hilt drops onto the sand, rolling away. I lean back behind the shelter of the_ Belle, _looking around for my 'saber, and over the deafening battle a voice yells, "Sir!" 

I look up and see Nock. He's jogging over, holding out my weapon. I take it, gratefully, and then the trooper also waves a roll of heavy-duty medical tape. I understand his intention instantly and hold out my arm, gripping my 'saber as tight as I can while Nock winds the tape quickly around my fist, forcing my numb fingers to stay closed over the hilt. It's a rough fix, but highly effective. Even when I relax my hand, my glove is taped closed and the 'saber doesn't fall. 

"Good idea."

"The sarge's idea, sir," Nock says and I look past him to Doghouse. The medic is crouched over an injured trooper, trying to patch a blaster burn. Doghouse glances up towards me, expression inscrutable through his helmet, but I nod my thanks and receive an answering nod in turn. It's a communication that I understand well enough. A resigned helplessness kept subjugated under the yoke of determination. We will go down, but we will do so fighting. Doghouse will know there's no point holding anything back now.

"Have you seen Switchback?" I shout hoarsely over the noise to Nock. "I need him on the west flank."

"He stayed holding the northern line so Ketter and the others could retreat," Nock shouts back, barely audible over the blasts of the cannon. "Never made it back. Anything else you need, General?"

Yes, I think. Plenty. I need my men alive. I need about a dozen tanks or at the very least some air support. I need an end to this battle and this whole blasted war. I need an answer to this mystery of the Sith and then the courage to do what I must at the end of it all, and I need to know that, if I can't survive it, Anakin will be okay. But mostly I need no-one to need _ me _ for a few hours so that I can go and have a stiff drink and maybe a quiet lie down.

"Nothing right now," I shout back to Nock, “Just-” But then there’s a cry in the distance, and a trooper on Tobu's tank falls, armour sparking with a blaster strike as he hits the ground. 

"Go!" I tell Nock with a slight push and he runs to the injured man without hesitation. Another defender gone. Skipper and Marney, Digit and Copper and Switchback. One by one the enemy are taking us down, a slow crush of attrition that will grind us all away to nothing but sand. I look out across the tank and the gunships, across the distant, undulating redness of desert to the glimmering edges of the sky. In the distance I can make out the shimmering scarlet dome over the shield generator, and I even imagine I can see little flashes of light and fire. Anakin. Ashoka. Cody and Rex and all of them. May the Force keep them safe.

It's time.

The moment I step out into the gap between the gunships, my 'saber flashing into life like a spark of blue lightning, I feel a wave pass out across the battlefield like the ripples in a pond after a fallen stone. Behind me and on either side, my men give a ragged cheer, emboldened by the glimmer of blue. The battledroids turn towards me as one, a clattering cascade, and across the circle I hear a flutter and skitter of wings as the Geonosians hover in the air, chattering and snapping in their fury. 

In front of me, one droid manages to intone "Hey! There's a Jedi h-" before the blaster bolt I countered takes its head off. Then the spell is broken; the droids rally quickly and bolts begin to rain down again with a fearsome intensity.

Usually I would not hesitate to leave my men to hold the line while I ran out into the midst of the droids, dispatching the squadron on the edge of my lightsaber with quick, ruthless efficiency. But this line, this circle, is all we have, and breaking that formation will mean death for us all. So I grab a discarded blast shield in my spare hand and fall in between Ketter and Sorvi. Without an order being given the men rally to me; Sorvi and Cogwheel move back to make room for the 'saber's swing, Ketter brings his shield up to cover my left and Crater, who last I saw was perched up on the _ Belle _ laying down cover fire, comes skidding and sliding down the hull to pick up the final shield and falls in at my back.

It could be any day, any fight. The smoking, scarlet battlefield, clank of droids, a Jedi surrounded by his loyal troops. It really is just one more day in a seemingly endless grind of days, a life embattled. The campaigns begin to blur and the planets and the faces and the countless deaths. This is what we've come to. This is what war does. That injured men, men who Force knows have earned their rest and their peace, should be here on this battlefield without reinforcement and without hope, limping and bleeding but still fighting, because they would fight to the death if I ordered it, down to the very last man. And that time, that probability, is closing in. 

As I fight and fight, I analyse the men around me. They're still fighting too but they all look terribly bad, close to collapse. Crater's blaster is weaving unsteadily and he misses as often as he hits. There's blood oozing out from between the chest and shoulder plates of Sorvi's armour, and beside him, Cogwheel is down on one knee, barely able to raise his blast shield. 

But there is to be no rest for them. Blaster bolts are still pouring down and threaten to bury us like snow. My vision is starting to blur, hands sweaty beneath my gloves. I parry a bolt back, sending it through the chest plate of a droid and two more take its place; I cut down those two more and another three march in. There's too many and they are forcing us back, they are going to break through...

From up above on one of the larties there's a shout of “General Kenobi!" and the whine of a thermal grenade being armed. I reach back blindly with the Force and catch the small sphere as it comes flying over my head and hurl it out amongst the densest groups of battledroids. The grenade rips two apart and scatters the remainder and there's a moment to breathe; a moment's respite.

But it's not the welcome whine-pop of grenades I hear next. There's a rumbling roar as two new enemy AAT-1 tanks crest the ridge and trundle in towards us. Both cannons fire, a fearsome punch of sound. Troopers scatter and the _ Belle _shakes, dust and debris blasting into the air. 

The Geonosians above us swarm in, taking pot shots at dazed clones. Our solitary tank fires back at the AAT-1s but the laser cannon alone won't even make a dent in the tank’s armour, Tobu knows that. If he's using the laser cannon, it means we're out of armour-piercing shells. Besides, the strength of the AT-TEs lies in their manoeuvrability. Without that or an good supply of armour-piercing rounds they're no real match for even one enemy tank.

"Concentrate your fire on the power conversion tubes!" I shout over the noise, hoping one of the men nearby will relay the message over the helmet comms. The AAT-1s don't have a weak spot but a lucky shot can sometimes ricochet through the plating covering the power convertor by the exit ramp and ignite the high energy shells stored in the foot of the tank. I've seen it happen perhaps three times in the decade the model has been in operation. Those are not good odds. 

The two AAT-1s spark and hiss under the onslaught, but the troopers’ DC-15S carbines will barely scratch the outer armour. A well-aimed throw from somewhere behind me manages to roll another thermal grenade under the nearest tank and as it detonates it takes out the repulsor engine. The tank drops to the ground with a solid thud, unable to move. But taking out the repulsors won't stop the cannon or the light guns, and the turret starts to turn. It won't take them long to blast a way through our defenses, just one good shot will do it, and then it will all be over. I hear Reed shouting something above me, see the troopers concentrate their fire on the nearest tank and...

I sense something is going to happen a moment before it does. But this time it isn’t tanks or droids or even incoming fighters. I shove two droids and a Geonosian back with a clumsy Force throw and glance out across the desert at the distant red dome of the shield, far away. There is a deep rolling _ boom _ that shakes the ground and the red shield shimmers and shakes like a heat mirage. Then, silently, it rolls up and flickers out. 

The shield is down_. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments, kudos or just read and enjoyed. Feedback is life.


	4. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part. 
> 
> Beta'd again by the fantastic [TrickyTricky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrickyTricky/pseuds/TrickyTricky) who, in addition to all the usual proofing and editing, also suggested a key addition to a certain scene which has massively improved the direction of the whole chapter. Thank you!

The shield is down!

Anakin has done it; of course he has. We haven't lost, not yet. All that we hoped to achieve, all we _ have _ to achieve - it's still within our grasp. This hasn’t all been for nothing. My men, and their short lives of service and violence. They haven't been spent for nothing.

The troopers must hear the news through their helmet comms, for a moment later they all start yelling and cheering. The tanks falter, turrets turning uncertainly, waiting for orders. The Geonosians above let out a screech of fury, and flutter back, disconcerted. Then, as a swarm, they rise up into the air and fly off to the north, abandoning their droid allies on the ground.

"The shield is down!" I hear someone yelling off to my right. "General, the shield is down!"

I see Sparker leaning out the door of _ Saber's Edge, _waving what must be the ship's comm handset.

I am about to reply, but it’s not over. The droids seem to recover from the flight of their Geonosian creators and decide their attack orders are still valid.

"Blast them!" intones the senior unit and two dozen E5 blaster rifles come up, aiming at the nearest trooper, which happens to be Cogwheel. I get there just in time, bringing my blast shield up in front of us both and catching the stream of blaster fire. Sorvi and Crater lay down a strafe of fire, pushing the droids back, and from up on the _ Saber _, Ash throws in his last droidpopper. 

For a moment, the firing ceases, and only then can I reply to Sparker, a breathless shout. 

“Sparker! Comm Cody. We need reinforcements at the landing zone, as soon as possible. And tell Knight Skywalker...have Rex tell him ‘well done’.”

Sparker gives a handsignal for _ acknowledged _ and disappears back into the LAAT/i. A moment later Crater shouts from behind me:

“They’re replying all frequencies, sir. Communication received; they’ll be here as soon as they can.”

Good. Cody’s on his way, Anakin and Ahsoka and Ki-Adi too, I hope. And if everyone here has heard it, perhaps the thought of reinforcements might give them the hope they need, so long as they don't read too much into the last part of my message. Maybe they don't recognise my attempt at goodbye for what it is. Maybe they do. 

As if on cue with my thoughts, Cogwheel collapses. I leap over him, slashing inelegantly, trying to hold the droids at bay while Sorvi and Ketter drag the injured man back. I can feel him through the Force though, feel the blood pooling in his lungs and throat and know it’s too late; he will be dead by the time they can get him to Doghouse. There's no time for regret, for sorrow. Duty and danger and the need to protect and survive drive such pains from my mind; an impure and desperate form of meditation. But I’ll take anything I can get. My ‘saber, the weapon I have wielded for years like a seamless extension of my own body, feels heavy and unwieldy in my hand; I know my fingers aren’t gripping at all now and if it wasn’t for the tape I would have dropped the hilt long since. 

Crater is still at my side, and Ash stumbles in to cover the gap Cogwheel left behind but it’s not going to be enough. The tank commander in the nearest AAT-1 seems to have finally computed that it had received an order and the guns open fire, shells smashing into the _ Saber’s Edge _ , rocking the dented, damaged LAAT/i with the power of the bombardment. We certainly must put a stop to _that_.

I hear shouting behind, and Reed is leaping down from the _ Belle _with Nock, Fib, and Widget at his back. He's holding two EMP grenades. 

“Last of the droidpoppers, sir!” He holds the grenades up. “Permission to go for the tank?”

“Granted!” I agree without hesitation. "I'll distract them!" 

I have an idea of what the troopers are going to try. Over the past year we have come up with various inventive ways of cracking AAT-1s open, but they’re all risky, and it’ll mean me leaving this side of the ring undefended. But at this stage, we have little to lose. 

They don’t wait another second but sprint out past me towards the nearest AAT-1. I discard my blast shield but only manage to limp a couple of numb steps after Reed before Crater is there, snatching up Cogwheel’s abandoned blaster in one hand and pulling my arm over his shoulders with the other. With Crater half-supporting and half-carrying me, we make it to an uneven run, straight towards the droids. I hold my ‘saber out wide as we run, clearly visible, and as expected, the droids ignore Reed and his troopers for the apparently greater threat of a Jedi, even one clearly injured. The primary laser cannon turret starts to swivel but the faster secondary blasters are already on us, firing immediately. In their eagerness the secondary gunners manage to shoot half a dozen of their own droids while trying to hit us - there are now, I note, just ten battledroids left on the field, but I only dare focus on the tank right now. I parry the bolts as they shower down on us and Crater lays down what cover fire he can with Cogwheel’s blaster as Reed’s men duck and dive under the turret. 

The droids inside the tank are still ignoring the troopers. The turret finally completes its turn and the cannon aims straight in on Crater and I, the willing bait. I hear the whine as the weapon charges, just as Nock and Reed leap up onto the broad skirt of the tank. Reed grabs at the cannon barrel while Nock slaps something thick and obscuring, probably wet mud, across the macroscope lens that displays down to the tank commander. They both jump back down.

But the tank already had me targeted before its sights went black, and I know I no longer have the strength to be able to evade the shot, or even push Crater away in time. I stare down the black tunnel of the barrel to a distant red glow; there is a hollow _ boom _as the tank fires, but a second before, the troopers on the ground leapt back, yanking hard on the thick flexisteel cable Reed had just looped around the cannon barrel. The barrel swings wildly to the side and the red energy pulse blasts out… straight at the second enemy tank. 

The AAT-1 fires off perhaps five or six shots before the tank commander realises something has gone wrong. The cannon ceases firing and the turret turns, uncertainly, from side to side. After a moment the top hatch pops open. Droids are nothing if not predictable. 

“Hey!” A droid’s head appears over the hatch rim. “Something happened to the-”

Reed leaps up onto the tank, tosses a droidpopper into the hatch and then slams the hatch door shut. A second later the lower hatch opens and Nock throws in the second grenade, also kicking the door closed. Then both grenades blow - no visible lightning sparks this time as the tank’s shielding insulates the full effect of the EMP so the full power of the pulse goes directly into the droids and the circuits inside the tank. Anakin assures me that an AAT-1 can be repaired after such treatment but as long as the battledroids themselves are fried, our immediate problem is neutralised. One tank down. One to go.

Widget, Fib and Reed start dispatching the last of the accompanying battledroids with a desperate brutality and I don’t wait around to watch. There’s still one tank left on the field.

“Come on!” I shout to Crater, and set off towards it. The friendly fire seems to have briefly knocked out the primary cannon but I can hear it powering back up, and the secondary guns are already back to blasting the _ Belle _ mercilessly. Tobu is still firing our AT-TE but the angle is wrong; he can’t aim at the AAT-1 without hitting the _Belle_, and it’ll be a matter of moments before the AAT-1 own cannon comes back online and blows a huge hole through our little sanctuary. 

I can see the area on the second tank where the friendly fire hit, low on the sloped front, under the arm of the cannon, right by the front hatch. The patch is glowing red hot, not nearly enough to get through even the outer plating, but it's enough. A weak spot. I think of long ago, of a Trade Federation flagship, of sealed blast doors and a green blade.

“Tell Tobu to get ready to fire on that tank!” I order to Crater as I pull away from his arm. “The moment I give the word!”

Crater tries to say something, but there’s no time for it. I push off from his shoulder and Force jump up onto the enemy tank, my feet sliding and unsteady on the armour plating. Then I turn my hand, breathe deep, and plunge the lightsaber straight into the glowing red centre of the hot durasteel. It takes time - AAT-1 tanks are designed to be impervious to almost everything - and I have to lean all my weight on the hilt to force the blade through the tank’s armoured shell. Molten plating bubbles and sparks, the filthy stench of burning plastoid and metal smoke wreaths around me and my hands are shaking; the effort is taking all my concentration and endurance, but there are no more droidpoppers, no thermal grenades, no more armour-piercing shells and the only option left is me. Gasping, shaking, with the very last of my strength, I shove the blade in through the tank’s armour, and the hinges of the hatch dissolve away in a hiss of melted metal. The hatch door grinds up and I force it wide open. 

“Now!”

One heartbeat later, our AT-TE fires. The blue bolt comes streaking through the sky towards me at 500mps; it’s too high, far too high to hit the tank, but for one moment everything comes back into focus. I cannot say afterwards if it was the stimulants in my blood, an impossible thousand-to-one chance, or even the will of the Force itself, but somehow as I leap into the air, lightsaber flashing out, I manage to catch the energy bolt on the side of the ‘saber blade and parry it straight down into the open hatch. 

The tank explodes. 

I feel the heat hit me like a scorching wave and I am hurled back and out into the open air. I am only vaguely aware of hitting the ground, too distracted by the supernova of light and fire before my eyes. After a while I realise that the flashes of colour and the ringing sounds must just be in my own head - my eyes are closed after all and the tank must have stopped exploding by now. For a moment I can't do anything but lie there and breathe.

“General! General Kenobi, can you hear me?”

“I’m here,” I tell the voice. "I'm still here." 

The swirling lights begin to clear and I see a trooper leaning over me: a strange, mismatched image of white and yellow helmet, camo body plates, dark red highlights. Crater. 

“Are we still alive?” I mumble.

“Seems so, sir,” Crater confirms. “Not sure who’s more surprised by that - the enemy or me. Can you get up, sir? Are you hurt?”

The question rouses me enough that I am able to sluggishly turn my senses inward to check on the Force splints controlling my injuries. They're weak and shaken but they're still present too. Even with the splint largely intact, my back throbs and sparks with pain that I can barely keep at bay. It's possible that explosions are bad for untreated spinal injuries. 

“No worse than before,” I hear myself saying. “Though I think that I could use a little rest.”

“I think you can probably have plenty of rest, sir, if you like.” Crater says. “Reed’s got the last of the clankers and the bugs are in the wind. It’s over.”

It isn’t. It’s never over. 

My back is spasming so badly now that it's going to take more than just Crater to get me up on my feet. While Ash limps over to help, I become aware of an annoying trickle of cold sweat on my face, and I reach up to sluggishly brush it away. Crater snatches hold of my forearm with a vice-like grip before I can complete the movement.

“Uh, sir? Perhaps you should switch off your lightsaber before you do anything else?”

I glance blearily down at my hand, at the mess of white tape around my glove and the blue lightning fire of my ‘saber emerging from my fist. Because it’s stuck to my hand, the failsafes that usually depower the blade when the hilt is dropped haven’t kicked in. The lightsaber is still powered up; it's a good job I didn’t accidentally cut my own head off.

“Oh, yes. Good idea.” 

In the end, I don’t have enough motor control left in my fingers to depress the power button anyway. Crater has to switch the lightsaber off for me, and then, once he's peeled away all the tape, detach the hilt and clip it back onto my belt.

Then Ash arrives and I’m somehow back up on my feet, and the three of us begin the short but arduous journey back to the gunships. All around us are clones, climbing down from the ships, breathing, bleeding, calling for help for injured comrades. Alive. The enemy have been routed. We have survived crash landings and ambushes, droidekas, fortresses and tanks. The shield is down, and we are victorious. Somehow, it doesn't feel like much of a victory.

There’s so much to do. We should cripple the intact AAT-1 so it can’t be redeployed. Secure our defences, or what is left of them. Patrol the wider area for unfriendlies and set up watchposts until the reinforcements arrive. There are literal fires which need to be extinguished. I should help Tobu get down off the tank. Someone needs to comm Anakin and Cody with an update. Doghouse will require assistance with the wounded and someone needs to get a med evac organised, urgently. The men will all need food and water. The injured should be assessed. The dead tallied up. 

We pass Cogwheel on our way back through the gap between the gunships. He’s on his back where his comrades laid him, silent and still. He’s not the only one. Beside him is what is left of Seven-Seven, Tobu’s engineer, who had been blasted straight off the tank by a shell that took off most of his head. Blake and Cyna died side by side defending the _ Saber’s Edge _ and I learn Wyatt had bled out during the retreat from the _ Nubian Belle. _ Then there were the four troopers who had been too badly injured to fight already, and had died when the AAT fired on the _ Saber's Edge. _A fifth who had picked up a punctured lung hours ago when Ki-Adi’s gunship crashed had just...run out of time. 

I go to find Sparker. The trooper is still sitting in the comms seat in the cabin of the gunship, with the cannibalised comms transmitter in his hand. His helmet is resting on the console - he took it off to hear the ship's comm system better. He looks almost peaceful except for the gaping hole in his forehead from where the tank shells shattered through the transparisteel viewscreen. 

But we won. That’s the thing to remember. The shield is down. All this...it was all for that one purpose. We survived the landing at Point Rain in order to take down the shield. We took down the shield so that we can destroy the droid factories, and we will do that so that next time, on the next battlefield, there might be slightly fewer droid blasters. We have achieved the objective. If, at the end of the battle, the number of living marginally outweigh the number of dead then what else matters? Every tiny, insignificant win is just one cog in the larger machine of our victory. It’s for the good of the people. It’s for choice, for freedom, for peace. This war - of course it is the right thing to do. Defending the helpless, standing up for the downtrodden, shining the light of justice and hope into clouded hearts. We will never submit, never capitulate to those who would destroy our democracy and our way of life. It’s all worth it. 

Isn't it?

Sparker had been nine years old when he died in this blasted hellhole. He was never given a choice. He had never known a single day of freedom or of peace in his whole life.

As I stand and look at Sparker’s still warm corpse, smelling the blood and smoke, the burnt plastoids and stink of death, I can’t help the treacherous thought that says no. It’s not worth it. Surrender would be better than this. 

I close my eyes, breathe out my sorrow and pain, and the Force enfolds me in a blanket of solace. I turn my senses inward and deep down, beneath my own wretched despair, I find a core of something adamant and unyielding. Even if submitting to the CIS, laying down arms or even letting the independent planets secede from the Republic had once been an option, it wasn't one any more. If I thought too many clones were dying now, if I thought the cost of this victory was too high, what would it truly be like if we surrendered this war? Did any of us really believe that the Separatists would be willing or capable of taking prisoners? I think of the battle on the _Malevolence_ and how, even after the fight was lost, the droids went around the debris field, ripping open the lifepods and letting the helpless men inside suffocate in the nothingness of the black. Then there were all the men massacred at Falleen, the innocents murdered on Ryloth, the horrors of Lanteeb, the Weemell Sector… Surrender wouldn't mean peace. It would mean slaughter. The moment we admitted defeat, we would be butchered to the last man. At least while we still fight the clones have a chance, to live and to defend their own existence. At least, while we fight, the galaxy has a chance.

The Light will prevail. It must. There can be no surrender to the Sith.

I’m still in the cockpit of the _Saber _ when Anakin finds me. I heard the Republic gunships arriving a few minutes ago; the roar of engines, the clatter of boots on rock and muffled shouts and instructions as chaos begins to be subjugated back into order. Unlike usual I can't sense Anakin's arrival, though that's no real surprise. The Force is dancing through my fingertips but there's nothing in my head but a numb, hollow silence and the sensation that my skull is filling up with a cold clean snow. Added to the odd disconnect between my thoughts and my physical body, these are all signs of an encroaching Force exhaustion, probably a worse bout than I've experienced in a long time. But the battle, this battle at least, is over. My part, for now, is done. Please let it be done.

I hear Anakin calling my name, and then a murmur of voices in the main body of the gunship behind me. Someone must point Anakin in my direction as a moment later, my former padawan is ducking into the cockpit.

"Obi-Wan?" Anakin calls. "What's-"

He sees me, or perhaps Sparker, and goes quiet. 

"Are you okay?" He asks after a moment. 

I look up. "Of course. Where's Ahsoka?"

"She's fine, Master; Mundi and Cody too. Your battleplan went down perfectly. What the kriff happened here?"

"Nothing worth telling," I say, moving away from the wall.

Anakin snorts, and folds his arms. “That’s not exactly what I heard,” he says. “By the way, there are a bunch of rather anxious troopers outside looking for you, including a Nova with a bandaged eye?”

“Crater.”

Anakin nods. “Said you gave him the slip. I told him I’d track you down and sent him off to check in with Jet and then to get his head seen to.”

“Was he alright?” I ask. The cockpit seems to be swaying a little. Anakin grabs my shoulders. 

“He’s better than you, Master. Come on. Let's get you out of here. What are you even doing on your feet in the first place? Thought you couldn't walk."

"I had to," I say, absently. "So I did."

"Right," Anakin says, skeptically.

He swings my arm over his shoulders to lead me out, but I find myself hesitating, looking back at Sparker. "I don't…" my mouth says, before I can cut it off. "Sparker..."

Anakin glances at the trooper's body and his look of understanding pity makes me want to retch. 

"Don't worry, Obi-Wan. We'll send someone back for him."

It's foolish sentiment on my part, I know. Emotion, weakness. The man is dead. The essence of who he was is gone from this place, no part of it remains in these mortal remains, stinking and stiffening beneath the heat and the flies. Sparker is dead, and wishing otherwise is an insult to his sacrifice and to the will of the Force. But the thought of anyone being abandoned in this suffocating miasma of heat and death… It's a haunting image that I can't seem to shake.

Before I can object, Anakin hauls me back through the main bulkhead rather than back out through the small pilot’s door I entered through. I have to force myself to look around the compartment of the gunship, expecting blood, burnt bodies, smoke and heat and... But the situation is better than I pictured. Now the reinforcements have arrived, we must have the manpower to start moving the men out to safety. The main doors on both sides of the _ Saber's Edge _ have been dragged open, letting the sunlight stream in. The dead have been moved aside and most of the injured men are being carried out into the open air. The overpowering stench of fear and suffering is slowly clearing in the low breeze. Two troopers from the relief, Boil and Sketch, are in the process of carrying one of the last stretchers out of the ship. Ki-Adi must have declared the whole landing zone secure, because neither Boil, Sketch, nor the patient on the stretcher have helmets on. I recognise the man straight away. Trapper gives me a broad grin and a thumbs up. I pat his shoulder as they carry him out.

As soon as the doorway is clear, Anakin guides me out of the ship and hauls me over into a patch of shade. He doesn't let go though, and there is a comforting solidity to his shoulders under my arm. I find myself leaning on him even more as we pause under the smoke-blackened wing of the _ Saber's Edge _ , winded and trembling. The newly arrived gunships are clustered around the battered remains of ours, enfolding all that's left of Point Rain in a little ring of safety. Anakin’s ships have seen action, certainly - they're dented and carbon scored - but those small marks just serve to dramatise the fury of the bombardment that left our gunships here all but destroyed. Against my side, the plating of the _ Saber’s Edge _ is dented and smeared with blood. Across from me the _ Nubian Belle _ is a charred ruin, pock-marked by tank shells, torn apart by the fury of the Separatists. The Nubian royal handmaiden painted across the nose, pistol raised and orange robe in artful disarray, is charred beyond recognition. I have no doubt the nose art of the _ Saber’s Edge - _ a silhouette of a robed Jedi with blue lightsaber poised mid strike that Cody had assured me was certainly _not_ modeled after me - will have suffered much the same fate. I'm not one to feel sentimental about machines and ships, but the _ Belle _ and the _ Saber _ did their best to save us, and so for that I can't help but feel a certain sense of melancholy at their demise. 

Anakin gives me a quick sitrep while I catch my breath. Admiral Yularen’s fighters are running bombing raids on any infrastructure still standing at the shield generator. The Temple has been informed of our victory and Master Unduli has begun preparations for the next phase of the attack. Ahsoka and Rex have taken the rest of the 501st and 212th out to patrol a five klik radius around our present location to make sure there are no more nasty surprises out there, like another squadron of droids. The medics are triaging the wounded on the ground and the med evac is inbound. Everything seems to be in order. 

"General Kenobi!" 

I look up and see Cody has finally spotted us. He breaks off in the middle of his conversation with Corporals Reed and Ash and hurries over.

"General. I’m glad to see you're alright, sir."

"You too, Cody. Good work out there today."

"Thank you, sir; I'll pass that on to the men. I don’t mean to state the obvious, sir, but shouldn't you be sitting down?" 

“He’s right, Obi-Wan, you should sit down,” Anakin agrees. “You look like forty kliks of bad runway."

"I'd rather stand," I say, dismissively.

Cody folds his arms. 

I sigh. "If I sit down, I'm rather afraid I shall pass out."

Instead of stemming the fussing like I had hoped, my explanation makes both Anakin and Cody glance at each other, alarmed. 

"I'll see what's keeping that med evac," Cody says to Anakin.

"I got him," Anakin confirms. "Go,"

"Sir," Cody says, turning back to me. He’s speaking slow and clear, like one addressing a recalcitrant crechling. "Sir, stay here with General Skywalker. Do not move." 

He runs off towards the area between the tanks where Coric is overseeing the preparation of the injured troopers for evacuation back to the fleet. I can see rows of hover stretchers, clusters of seated men with bandages, dressings and slings, and others just wrapped up in blankets asleep on the ground. A couple of the closest figures notice me; I think I make out Sorvi, and Ketter, and Widget too. They all wave or salute, and I nod back, gratified to see them still alive. 

Beyond them, Doghouse and Folly are kneeling beside a stretcher, surrounded by medical bags and supplies, trying to treat an injured trooper. Folly looks up, sees me, and nudges Doghouse. Both medics give me a glare and Doghouse spares a hand to signal the words_ halt _ and _ evac_. It's a fairly terse communication but I interpret the combination of signals and scowl to mean _ stand still and don’t move until the medevac gets here or, believe me, general, a ruptured spleen will be the least of your worries. _

I give them a sardonically crisp salute back, and Doghouse rolls his eyes. They turn back to their patient.

"What was that all about?" Anakin asks.

"Nothing. Just restoring the chain of command."

"What do you mean?"

"Medics first, and then everybody else."

Anakin snorts a laugh, and then he says: "You know as well as I do, Master; it's always easier to just do whatever the medics tell you." 

“Hypocrite,” I mutter. Privately I am surprised, though very relieved, that the medics haven't already been over to badger me about my injuries. I suppose with the med evac so close there really is little more that can be done until we arrive back at the fleet. Still, the peace and quiet does not go unappreciated, and for a few moments even Anakin is quiet.

"Hey. Hey, Obi-Wan. Don't fall asleep."

Someone pokes me in the face and I open my eyes, wearily. The last dregs of the stims are fading from my system, and I know it won't be long before I crash, hard.

"Stay awake, Obi-Wan, just a little longer. Dustoff is just a few minutes out."

I hum a little in reply.

“Are you hurting?” Anakin asks. “Do I need to get Coric over here?”

“No, no,” I reassure. “Just tired. I’m just tired, Anakin.”

There is quiet for a moment, and then: "You know, Obi-Wan," says Anakin, loudly. "I can't believe we had to come all the way out here again, just to rescue you."

I am quite aware of the purpose of Anakin’s statement; he’s trying to rile me up, keep me responsive and alert. I dutifully play my part and reply:

"You didn't. By the time you got here, I had the situation well under control."

"Well if you'd actually comm'd us when you were first in trouble-" Anakin mutters but wisely doesn't finish that statement. Instead he follows with: "Ahsoka was quite disappointed to get here and find out that the fight was already over. She was eager for another round with the Geonosians."

"War isn't a game, Anakin," I say, sharper than I meant. The thought of Ahsoka seeking out more bloodshed...disturbs me. 

"Says you," Anakin returns, maturely. "What's this I hear about you trying to cut a tank in half with your lightsaber?"

"I did nothing of the kind," I argue, wondering who has been spreading such nonsense. "Who told you that?"

"Crater," says Anakin, smugly.

"The tank was being problematic," I explain. "I had to employ a...a… ‘saber assisted tactical entry."

Anakin snorts. "And did this 'saber assisted tactical entry' also take place at the tank you had Tobu blow up _while_ _you were standing on it_? Or was it the one you threw across the landing zone with your mind?"

Force damn it, Crater. 

"That was a gunship, not a tank. And I did not _ throw _it, that was-"

"Let me guess," says Anakin. "It was a ‘Force assisted tactical relocation’?" 

"Precisely."

Anakin makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. 

"When Cody finds out about this you are going to be in some serious _ druk_."

"So I've been told."

There's a sound above us. I don't attempt to look up but I recognise the distant low rumble of ships passing through the planet’s atmosphere. The med evac is inbound, at last.

"It's nearly over," Anakin says. There’s a pause before he adds, quietly serious; "It was bad out here, wasn't it, Obi-Wan?"

"It hasn't been one of my better days," I agree, after a moment.

"We need to talk about this," Anakin says. "All of it, what happened. And I mean talk, not debrief. Firstly, you thought you were going to die and all you had to say to me was _ well done?” _

“Anakin. Did you really need me to say more?”

Anakin gives me a sharp glance, and then turns his head away, wearily. "No, I guess not."

The LAAT/is of the med evac land a few minutes later, and we start to make our slow way over to the newest landing zone, to where Ki-Adi is sitting watching the clone commanders expertly get everything in order. In the distance I can see that the 501st have also returned from their task of securing the immediate area. Rex and Ahsoka are talking animatedly to Cody while the other troopers pitch in to help ferry the injured men over to the transports. I can tell Anakin is itching to dash off and join his padawan - at the moment I am forced to walk terribly slowly, and Anakin has never moved slowly in his life.

“It’s alright, Anakin,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine if you need to go.”

“Master, no offence but shut up. You look like a stern stare could knock you off your feet,” Anakin says. “We’re only walking in the first place because I know how stubborn you are. I’d send someone for a stretcher in a heartbeat if I thought there was any chance you’d use it. In the meantime there’s no rush - I’ll make sure they aren’t going to leave without you.”

I’m too tired to say that actually I’d probably be quite content on a stretcher right at this moment. Cody has ordered the gunships to land some distance from the burned and scorched battlefield where the _ ‘Saber’s Edge _ and _ Nubian Belle _ rest and that distance is seeming more and more insurmountable by the second.

Doghouse intercepts us close by the ring of evac gunships. He looks as tired as I feel. 

“Sergeant,” Anakin greets him.

“Medical evacuation’s almost complete, Generals,” Doghouse says. “All of the Cat-2 patients are off world now, apart from you, General Kenobi. We’re sending the bulk of the Cat-3 and 4s in this wave of gunships, and then we’ll evacuate the last few men, including the generals, in the remaining four ships.”

“The dead,” I say, blinking slowly. “We should send someone to bring them in too. Don’t leave anyone behind, Anakin.”

“We’ll do our best, Obi-Wan,” Anakin promises. 

“Sure you’re good to handle the trip back up to the fleet, sir?” Doghouse asks. “Coric and Folly went with the Cat-2s and I don’t have any more medics to send along and keep you from collapsing.”

“It’s barely a forty-minute trip, sergeant,” I point out. “I’m sure I can handle it.”

“Good,” says Doghouse. “Cause I’d hate to have to tape you to something else.”

He runs off before I have to explain to Anakin what he’s talking about.

We arrive at the newest staging area. Ki-Adi-Mundi is being helped onto a gunship, and in the distance I can see the last few hover-stretchers being loaded onto transports. The gunship is close, barely thirty metres off, but I’m so exhausted it seems like half a continent away.

Ahsoka arrives in her usual whirl of energy and tireless enthusiasm, which at the moment is tinged with a bright indignation.

“Master Kenobi! Are you okay? I can’t believe they attacked you like that! Sending three tanks up against injured men...it’s so cowardly!”

“We survived, Ahsoka,” I say. “That’s all we can ask. I hear you performed admirably at the shield generator.”

She shrugs. “Just doing my job, Master. But you’re going to be okay, right? You’ll be back by the time we take the foundries?”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I say, vaguely. The evac ship is still looking terribly far away and my head is spinning, heart pulsing fast and erratic. Just one foot in front of the other, Kenobi.

“Good, ‘cause we could really use you out there,” Ahsoka is still saying. “And also Commander Cody gets awfully bossy when you’re hurt.”

“Ahsoka…” Anakin sighs. 

“Sorry. I mean, I’m sure we can manage without you. The 501st can handle anything they’ve got to throw at us, right, Master? 

“Right,” Anakin agrees. “So you can just relax and let them fix you up properly this time. Obi-Wan?”

“Alright,” I mumble, tiredly, content to agree. Anakin picks up the pace.

“So, Master,” Ahsoka says to Anakin from somewhere nearby. “What was your total?”

“Not now, Ahsoka."

“Come on. Are you afraid you lost this time?” Ahsoka wheedles and my sluggish brain slowly remembers that awful game the two of them have been playing recently. Comparing their kills, like they were low rate Corellian bounty hunters. It’s tasteless. It’s...disturbing.

“Fine. 55, that's my count,” Anakin says. “And you?”

We’re almost at the gunship now. It’s almost strange to see a LAAT/i so fresh, so undamaged, after everything that’s happened over the past day. I have a sudden, disconcerting wave of _deja vu_ and something that’s almost revulsion at the sight of the open troop compartment door and the troopers packed inside. The memory of that oppressive stench and the heat rolls over me like a terrible wave and it’s so real I can almost see the _ Bad Kitty _ in front of me, smell the fuel and burnt flesh, see Digit, Copper, Grapeshot and Marney in the clones peering out of the doorway, see the claws of the blue nexus painted on the nose glinting in the sun. 

I shiver hard, just as Anakin spins around, forcing me to stumble a little to keep up. 

“Yeah,” Anakin is saying to Ahsoka in response to their ongoing argument about kills. “But I called in the air strike. Tie.”

Ahsoka grins. “You're impossible,” she says, rolling her eyes, and skips away.

“I'll never understand how you can simplify these battles into some kind of game,” I mutter to Anakin, trying to ground myself in the here and now, to forget the recent past and its lingering, claustrophobic horrors. 

A trooper comes up on my left and next thing I know, Anakin is behind us and I’m being steered into the gunship. I sway unsteadily the moment my feet touch the metal floor, but then Ki-Adi is on my other side, pulling my arm over his shoulders. The Cerean master radiates a gentle calm, as if I am standing near a warm light.

Anakin is watching us from outside the gunship. For all his banter with Ahsoka, there’s a slightly tense look around his eyes as he looks at us. He’s worried, about me. “Well, take care of yourselves,” he says. “I expect to see _ both _of you back here by the time I've destroyed the main factory.”

“We shall do our best,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. 

“65,” says Ki-Adi-Muni, out of the blue. I look at him with slow surprise, wondering if he is hallucinating, or more hurt than he appears. Could this be a delusion, or sign of head injury?

“I'm sorry?” asks Anakin, perhaps wondering the same. 

“My total,” Ki-Adi continues. “65. So what do I win?”

The look of surprise and consternation on Anakin’s face is almost humorous. In the end he settles for a short bow and says: “My everlasting respect, Master Mundi.” 

“That is a gift Anakin rarely bestows,” I mutter to Ki-Adi, “I assure you.” 

Behind us I hear one of the men snicker. 

Anakin rolls his eyes and for once lets me have the last word. He steps back, beside Ahsoka and Rex, and the gunship’s engines fire up. Around us the troopers reach up for the ceiling straps, holding on for take off. Across the landing area, I see three other ships start to rise, and then the troop compartment door slides closed, cutting off the light and the desert beyond. 

The gunship floor starts to vibrate, the hum of the engines turns to a roar, and the ship lifts up off the ground. 

It’s over. We have left Geonosis. There’s nothing more I can do. It’s _ over. _

I can feel myself swaying, and reach up blindly for a grab handle. The gunship turns and banks steeply, and I have to lean hard into Ki-Adi to keep my balance. Then we’re ascending, fast; I’m guessing the pilot has been given instructions to get us back to the Negotiator as quickly as possible. The ship shakes around me, but there’s no sound of starfighters or cannon, not this time. The skies are clear. The danger is passed. It’s over.

I look around, vaguely wondering which troopers we have with us. There’s camo armour, yellow highlights, paint, tallies scratched onto helmets. I can’t tell. Can’t remember what all those things signify. The clone troopers opposite are talking to each other but I don’t know how they can possibly hear over the rushing winds.

“-enobi?”

I turn to Ki-Adi-Mundi. He’s still holding me up. 

“Yes?”

“It’s going to take us over half an hour to reach the ship. I think perhaps you should sit down.”

“I’m alright,” I tell him. Trying to twist or bend my back right now is going to be very, very unpleasant. “I’ll stand. Though...it’s rather cold, isn’t it?”

I seem to remember it being too hot inside the troop compartment before. Wasn’t it terribly hot? Now I’m feeling cold, chilled to my core. My hands are shaking, arms too. Perhaps the ship was damaged after all, because the lighting inside the compartment also seems unusually, painfully bright. An electrical fault, perhaps, causing malfunctions in the environmentals. That could affect the gravity or even the oxygen supply. Perhaps that’s why it’s hard to breathe.

“...need some help,” someone is saying, close by. “He’s gone very pale.”

“The life support system,” I try to say, though it’s proving hard to speak. “I think…”

My arms are tingling; hands, neck. Pain shooting up and down my spine, radiating out from my lower back. More pain in my torso, deep and heavy and cold, like a block of ice. Maybe it’s not the life support, then. Maybe it’s just me. I reach for the comfort of the Force and it drifts away from me like smoke. 

Someone is holding my arm. 

“General Kenobi?” I hear, and then another voice;

“Kenobi? Just hold on. Just…”

I can feel it as the ship falls from the sky. No, not the ship. Me. Just me, falling. The ship is fine, but I’m falling. Mouth full of blood and the ground comes up, hard and sudden, and then-

A formless, peaceful darkness carries me away. I rest. 

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'What is the world, O soldiers?  
It is I:  
I, this incessant snow,  
This northern sky;  
Soldiers, this solitude  
Through which we go  
Is I.'  
_Walter de la Mare - Napoleon_
> 
> Thank you everyone who left kudos, comments or just took the time to read through. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.


End file.
